How Long the Night
by sithmarauder
Summary: It's the silent nightmares that are the worst. [Cullen/Dorian.]


Eventually I'm going to stop posting non-Hetalia things on this account but for now have some Dragon Age.

Incidentally, I have no idea how to write things that aren't completely saturated in European history please send _help_. Also I really, really don't like this piece, mostly because I wrote it while I was still in the "my-head-is-so-fuzzy-I-can't-think" portion of the cold I still have, but I'm tired of wrestling with it and just wanted to get it out of the way, so here's my ignoble first foray into this particular pairing. I'm sorry.

-x-

 _ **How Long the Night**_

Dorian woke to silence—or, well, to the type of silence one could expect from a fortress like Skyhold, where the people never slept and the weight of the world was as common a burden as the need for tradition back in Tevinter. He could feel the cold bite of the winter air as it filtered in through the damn hole in the ceiling, carrying an edge he had never felt at home, and he shivered as the remnants of sleep pulled at his mind, tempting him back into blessed darkness, even as a niggling sense of _something_ in the back of his mind kept him awake, forcing him into a more alert state until his hands twitched for his staff, a prickling sense of unease running along his spine. When he scanned the loft that made up the Commander's sleeping area, though, there was nothing, and he grumbled under his breath as he lamented yet another good night's sleep ruined by _nothing_ , even as he turned his head instinctively to catch a glimpse of the bed's other occupant.

If you'd asked one Dorian Pavus a year ago what he thought he'd be doing, well… Dorian grimaced. Well. It certainly wouldn't have been an answer to be proud of, if he'd have even answered the question at all instead of deflecting. Masks had been all too common in Tevinter, harsh motives lurking behind soft smiles as cruelty masqueraded as tradition, as care, as _love,_ and Dorian had internalised many of those masks, learning to play the game as skilfully as everyone else, until hardly anyone saw behind the flirtatious smile to the wreck that was underneath as his society (his father) turned on him to tell him how wrong he was, how broken, how _disgusting_. Even now he hadn't let all of that go, and all too often the doubt and insecurity had plagued him in the beginning of this unexpected relationship, following him all the way from Tevinter and _goodness, Dorian, you fool, you really should have known you couldn't outrun this sort of thing_ , but he had tried, and he had failed, and when he had stumbled and faltered he had been surprised to see Cullen still standing there, solid and real, a wall of understanding and patience and insecurities of his own.

"A sane man," Dorian had snapped at him once, "would run for the hills."

"And a faithful man," Cullen had replied simply, "would fight what he believes in. I am not many things, Dorian, but I am that, and I have faith in you. Perhaps it's time you had faith in yourself."

The words brought a small smile to Dorian's face now, but it soon vanished when he saw his lover fully, and he had to fight back the concern that rose when his mind registered what he was seeing.

Cullen's face was strained, a thin sheen of sweat covering his skin, and if it hadn't been so damn cold out perhaps Dorian would have attributed the sweat to the heat and the strain to the Lyrium withdrawals. (The Commander wasn't exactly prone to wandering around _smiling_ all the time, either, and Dorian had often muttered that too much frowning would lead to premature wrinkles, for all Cullen actually listened.) He knew, however, from months of sleeping beside the Commander, that this kind of strain only came from one thing.

A common misconception seemed to be that one always woke violently from nightmares, screaming and crying and thrashing about, and in Dorian's case that was sometimes true, nights when he couldn't quite chase the past from his mind. In Cullen's however, it wasn't, and in all the nights Dorian'd spent by Cullen's side he'd only witnessed one night like that, following a day when the withdrawal had been particularly hard on Cullen, though he'd kept it on the down-low—unwilling to let on that anything was wrong, even as Cassandra's eyes had tracked him, always alert for any sign that he was weakening. So it was hardly a surprise to Dorian that that determination would follow Cullen even into slumber, years of training preventing his body from giving him away. As a result the only signs of the Commander's nightmares were, all too often, an unearthly stillness to his body and the way his skin broke out in a sweat, face pinched as he struggled to hold whatever it was inside of him.

Dorian almost didn't want to know what kind of horrors could instil that kind of immobility in a man like Cullen. He knew about Kinloch Hold, of course, though it was more through stories than anything Cullen had actually told him, and that was fair. Maker knew there were many things Dorian kept to himself as well, and Cullen never pushed, only looked at him with startling sincerity and told him that, should he ever wish to share, he would listen.

Regardless, Cullen was never immobile, not like this, and if it weren't for the shallow breaths and the faint rise and fall of the Commander's chest Dorian might have thought him dead. The thought was more chilling than he'd ever care to admit out loud and for a moment he couldn't force the image from his mind, flashes of oxygen rattling in Cullen's chest as he breathed his last, blood spilling from wounds that could be inflicted on any battlefield, at any time, leaving Dorian _alone again_ and no, no, _no_ , this wasn't about him, couldn't be about him, and _damn_ whatever had put those images into his mind when Cullen was clearly going through his own hell. Dorian swore under his breath, sucking in a lungful of the cold Ferelden air, and when he felt stable enough he opened his eyes again and reached out, resting a cool hand on Cullen's clammy forehead, chastising himself for not doing so before, when whatever demons that lurked inside Cullen's mind had him at their mercy.

Cullen didn't move at the touch, didn't startle, and Dorian propped himself up on his elbow before he began brushing sweaty strands of hair from Cullen's face, murmuring nonsense in low tones as he did so. He never knew if Cullen could hear him, lost in memories and darkness as he likely was, but it had no bearing on whether or not Dorian spoke; he lost nothing if the Commander didn't hear, and he liked the think the nonsense was soothing to them both, even if he didn't know for sure (and wasn't that a sobering thought, when he'd once thought he'd known everything of relevance). Either way, they never talked about the nightmares, just as they never talked about the way Dorian's personal stash of alcohol had been suspiciously removed from his quarters, or about the way Cullen's hands would sometimes shake on particularly bad days. They simply understood, one broken man to another, and tried their best to help in their own silent ways.

"What would you do without me?" Dorian murmured to the darkness, sitting up so that he could cradle the Commander's face. Gradually his hands shifted, moving from Cullen's face to his shoulder, and from there to his side, where Dorian's thumb rubbed what he hoped were comforting circles into the skin. The Commander still never stirred, never moved, but when Dorian shifted up to press a careful kiss to his jaw Cullen's head turned towards him a little, and Dorian allowed himself to breathe a small sigh of relief when the Commander's body began to relax, little by little, until the sleeping man let out a low sigh and seemed to settle at last, curling instinctively into the warmth of Dorian's own body.

Dorian's base instincts, the parts of him that still remembered the pain of blood magic, screamed at him to run, that this was too close, too much, but he swallowed those down like he had before, silently lowering himself back onto the mattress. Maker willing Cullen would remember nothing of his nightmares come morning, and only Dorian's own memories would be a testament to them having occurred at all. Dorian was no fool, though; he knew Cullen didn't have to be asleep to be plagued by the past (something he himself understood all too well), just like he knew he would wake to a cold bed, Cullen having already left to go train the recruits or catch up on his paperwork, and Dorian would watch for a period, as he always did, until Cullen looked up and inclined his head, his features softening with gratitude he could not speak aloud.

He always knew when Dorian was able to chase the nightmares away.

And Dorian, well, Dorian would raise an eyebrow as if to say _I have no idea what you mean_ , and Cullen would smile, soft and private, before shaking his head and going back to his task, leaving Dorian to his own devices. It wasn't perfect, their arrangement, and the logical side of Dorian's brain told him that one day, if they wanted to have a future (and wasn't that a thought, a _future_ with the _Commander of the Inquisition Forces_ , and an ex-Templar to boot), they would have to talk about it; to dredge up all the ghosts and the skeletons that lingered in their respective pasts. For now, however, what they had _worked_ , and Dorian never felt pushed or pressured to speak about things he wasn't comfortable with, nor did he expect Cullen to tell him about every last horror and talk through it like that would somehow make the nightmares stop. One day, if they felt the need, they would.

Until then, Dorian thought as he settled alongside his lover, stretching out until their bodies moulded together as easily as in a clichéd novel, he was content with what they had. _Cullen_ was content with what they had. And as the Lion of Ferelden shifted closer to him, tucking his head under Dorian's chin with the sluggishness of those in deep slumber, Dorian allowed himself a small smile.

It was enough.


End file.
